


angels like you

by calypezo (pezzainwonderland)



Category: Bridgerton (TV), Bridgerton Series - Julia Quinn
Genre: Bodyguard AU, F/M, Gen, I know nothing about the monarchy and do not care about accuracy, Idiots in Love, Modern Royalty, Multi, fwb to lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-24 07:07:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30068532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pezzainwonderland/pseuds/calypezo
Summary: “Itwasa great dress, wasn’t it?” Penelope tilted her head to peek at the image of her from the night before, leaving a pub on the arm of a rather attractive young man whose name she couldn’t recall, wearing a scandalously low cut little black dress that clung to her curves.Francesca hummed in agreement.They both knew very well why Portia was furious with her. It was insanely unbecoming for a princess to be captured in such a situation - the rumor mill was already running wild, trying to track down the poor man who had been stupid enough to be photographed with her (mind you, from what she could recall of him beyond the physical, she was sure that he would bethrilledby his fifteen minutes of fame).Penelope had well and truly become the bane of her mother’s existence.------------------------------------------------------------------------------------alternately known as "the modern royalty/bodyguard au that no one asked for"
Relationships: Colin Bridgerton & Michael Stirling, Colin Bridgerton/Michael Stirling (Past. Implied. Heavily Implied. Totally happened once.), Colin Bridgerton/Penelope Featherington, Francesca Bridgerton/Michael Stirling, Penelope Featherington & Francesca Bridgerton
Comments: 29
Kudos: 103





	angels like you

For far too long, Penelope Featherington had felt uncomfortable in her own skin.

_Beyond_ uncomfortable. Penelope had felt...God, she had felt like an imposter. She’d felt like a monster. Like some sort of changeling or doppelganger. Her sisters, while maybe not conventionally beautiful, had at least been _slender_. They’d had beautiful, perfect curves in all the right places - so much so that their mediocre faces didn’t matter. 

Growing up, Penelope had had all sorts of lumps and bumps where all her Mother’s magazines had said lumps and bumps weren’t supposed to be. She started wearing shorts to the lakes and swimming pools when she was twelve years old to hide her thighs, and heaven forbid she ever wore less than a tankini for a top (if she got up the nerve to wear a two-piece suit at all). 

From the day she’d started wearing bras, the media had loved to point out her size and speculate about her weight. She had been dubbed the ‘Portly Princess’ before she’d even reached her teen years. 

Of course, dating had been completely and utterly impossible. Beyond the home schooling and the intimidation her title added, by the time she was even of age to notice the opposite sex, her confidence had been totally obliterated by ruthless public opinion. 

Penelope Featherington had felt alone and worthless, despite being constantly reminded of how important and valuable she was - or, rather, her reputation and appearances were. 

It had been exhausting and, truly, it was a marvel that she survived long enough to escape to college. 

And it was there that she’d met Francesca Bridgerton, and Francesca was… 

God, she was a breath of fresh air. 

Penelope had gone to college as far from home as was allowed (with a solid security detail in tow, of course - there were still rules, no matter how far she ran), and Francesca had done the same to escape from a family in which she felt she didn’t belong. She’d always insisted that she loved them dearly, but she’d always felt _othered_ when she was with them. She’d told her stories about how competitive and loud and boisterous they all were and Francesca just wasn’t that sort. 

Francesca was silent self-assurance. 

Cool confidence. 

She didn’t need to be loud to stand out. 

They were kin, even if Francesca’s world could never quite measure up to Penelope’s disaster of an upbringing - the hell of the monarchy. 

But Penelope understood her and, on some basic level, Francesca understood Penelope in return. 

And it was with Francesca that Penelope learned to celebrate herself and her body and her sexuality. 

Francesca was confident and adventurous and sexy and everything in between, and Penelope had desperately wanted to be like her. 

And it came to her so _effortlessly_. The energy she exuded became contagious and, when she was with Francesca, attending college parties and going to bars and pubs, Penelope began to feel confident, and sexy. It was like a drug, a mask. Francesca’s energy and encouragement elevated Penelope to a place she never dreamed she could be. 

She began to dress in clothes that flattered her curves, rather than hid them. She cut her hair into a style she’d always wished she could pull off, she learned how to do her make-up (not to hide, but to _enhance_ ), and men started to look her way. 

For the first time in her life, Penelope had felt _desirable_. 

And, yeah, maybe somewhere along the way, she’d lost herself a bit in that _feeling_. It became a compulsion, an addiction. She’d never felt wanted or accepted, let alone _desired_ , and she refused to return to a life without that feeling, even when she was forced to return to London when she received her degree in Political Science ( _not_ her first choice of major, but she hadn’t been given a choice in the matter…). 

But, while life could not remain as it was in college, at least Penelope could take solace in knowing that Francesca, too, would come to reside in London and, whenever she needed to escape, she knew Fran would be there to run with her. 

Even if they could never get far. 

On that particular morning, she was meeting Francesca for brunch, and the gawdy headline was printed clearly at the top of the morning paper that her college roommate of old was casually perusing. 

[](https://imgbb.com/)  


She could truly never escape it... 

“I’m offended that I wasn’t invited,” Francesca informed her good-naturedly, tossing the article aside. 

Penelope grinned, allowing her PPO to pull out her chair for her before he went to sit at a table nearby, allowing her and Francesca their privacy, “I’d hardly call it a _rager_.” 

Francesca took a drag from her cigarette, “They said David Beckham was there.” 

“He was not,” Penelope assured her, “He’s much too old for that sort of thing, come on now.” 

The brunette shrugged, “Fine. I forgive you.” 

Penelope beamed, “So gracious of you.” 

“I’m sure your mother’s pissed.” 

“Hasn’t spoken to me all morning,” Penelope informed her brightly. 

Francesca grinned, “For the life of me, I don’t understand why. It’s a fantastic picture - you look hot.” 

“It _was_ a great dress, wasn’t it?” Penelope tilted her head to peek at the image of her from the night before, leaving a pub on the arm of a rather attractive young man whose name she couldn’t recall, wearing a scandalously low cut little black dress that clung to her curves. 

Francesca hummed in agreement. 

They both knew very well why Portia was furious with her. It was insanely unbecoming for a princess to be captured in such a situation - the rumor mill was already running wild, trying to track down the poor man who had been stupid enough to be photographed with her (mind you, from what she could recall of him beyond the physical, she was sure that he would be _thrilled_ by his fifteen minutes of fame). 

Penelope had well and truly become the bane of her mother’s existence. 

At least before, when she’d been quiet and insecure, she could easily be ignored. 

Now, she was impossible to miss - and the press was _obsessed_. 

Whether in a good or bad way was up for debate. 

Regardless, they couldn’t get enough of her. 

“She wants to hold a ball this weekend - a _proper_ charitable soiree to distract from my indiscretion,” Penelope thanked the waiter when he offered her coffee, sitting back to allow him to fill up a mug. 

Francesca frowned, “I thought she wasn’t speaking to you?” 

“Felicity told me.” 

“Ah,” Francesca gave a low whistle, “You’ve got to hand it to her: the woman works fast.” 

Penelope wrinkled her nose, “God, don’t give her too much credit - she won’t be planning a thing. All she’ll do is throw money at someone and hope it solves the problem.” 

“The problem being you.” 

“Of course,” Penelope winked. She sighed, then, stirring an unreasonable amount of cream into her coffee, “She’s also already hired more PPOs.” 

Francesca snorted, “Like that’s ever stopped you - no offense, Frank,” she called, offering Penelope’s current escort an apologetic wave. 

He gave a nod of acknowledgement. 

“Yes, well...Frank’s more than paid his dues. The more the merrier, I say,” Penelope beamed good-naturedly. While the lifestyle she was forced to lead may not have always agreed with her, she did love her team, and she never held the PPOs duties against them. 

They had no say in the matter. Their job was to protect her, first and foremost, and she truly appreciated their efforts and dedication. 

Especially on the nights when she made their job especially difficult. 

“Well, whoever they are, I wish them luck,” Francesca informed her, raising her tea in a toast. 

“To my continued safety,” Penelope suggested. 

“To Kevin Costner,” Francesca countered with a suggestive wiggle of her brow. 

“Oh, God, the dream.” 

“Could you imagine?” 

They laughed. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

The ball was, of course, every bit the stuffy nightmare Penelope had expected, and she thanked God that Francesca had agreed to come to support her. 

And provide her with a steady supply of champagne. 

Given that and the fact that she’d snuck in one or two glasses of wine prior to her arrival at the hotel, Penelope was well and truly buzzed by the time she spotted the newest additions to her security detail. 

They weren’t difficult to spot for two reasons: 

One: Frank was obviously showing them the ropes (Frank wasn’t really the sort to dally with random young men - or anyone, for that matter) and they were, of course, appropriately dressed for the job. 

And Two: Well… 

They were, quite literally, two of the most beautiful men Penelope had ever seen. The one on the left was tall, dark, and handsome - with long, thick, jet black hair held back in a bun and piercing grey eyes (very much Francesca’s type, she noted). 

And the other. 

_Oh_ , the other. 

The other was nothing short of stunning - the sort of man that took Penelope’s breath away. His height was similar to that of his companion, but he had fair complexion in stark contrast to his artfully mussed, deep chestnut hair. 

Even from across the room, Penelope caught the shocking green of his eyes and she knew she’d never forget such a color again. 

He caught her eye and gave her a nod of acknowledgement, the corner of his mouth (also perfect) tugging slightly upward while Frank continued to chatter on (likely about some protocol or another). 

“Sweet baby Jesus,” Penelope breathed, returning the nod with a smile of her own before she turned and, as gracefully as she could, immediately hurried off to locate Francesca, because _holy shit_. 

Upon finding her engaged in casual (likely boring) conversation nearby, Penelope grabbed her by the arm, excusing them from the conversation before dragging a confused Francesca Bridgerton away, “I need you to see this.” 

“Oh, God, what?” 

“No - you’ll like it. Come,” Penelope grinned, switching her grip to her hand and leading her through the crowd until they were back in a place where the two men were well within their line of sight, “ _Look,_ ” Penelope whispered, spreading her arms wide as though she were _presenting_ them to her. 

Francesca froze, “Oh my God.” 

“ _Right_?” Penelope beamed. 

Francesca shook her head, “No, I mean… _oh my God_ \- “ 

“Yes, I know. Now, you should absolutely take the one of the left. The one on the right, however - “ 

“ - is my brother.” 

Penelope choked, “I beg your _pardon_?” 

Francesca groaned, “My brother, Colin - OW!” 

Penelope swatted her again for good measure, “You never _told me_ that your _brother_ was a stone cold fucking _fox_!” 

Yes, she’d mentioned her brother Colin in passing conversations before - saying he’d texted her from Spain or Greece or some such exotic location. Now and then he would even call to check in and chat, but… 

Oh, the _betrayal_. 

Penelope hit her again for good measure because surely Francesca had _known_ that Colin was precisely her type. 

Hell, she hadn’t even known he worked in Personal Security! 

Another flick in the cheek couldn’t hurt... 

Francesca swatted her hands away, “Christ, don’t let _him_ hear that - quit hitting me!” 

“If I’d _known_ , I would have hired him myself _months ago_ ,” Penelope hissed, “Good fucking _Lord_ , Fran, he is - “ 

“I’m begging you not to finish that sentence.” 

Penelope bit her lip, “I would cl- “ 

“Do not.” 

“I’m gonna.” 

“Penelope, no - “ 

“ _Francesca?_ ” 

Francesca closed her eyes and groaned, “Fuck.” 

“Oh, good, he’s coming this way,” Penelope grinned, elbowing the brunette teasingly. 

“I hate you - I hate you so much. You - Colin! Hi,” Francesca greeted, plastering a smile on her face as Adonis himself stood before them. 

Christ, he was tall. Granted, at a whopping 5 foot nothing, everyone seemed tall to Penelope, but… 

Oh, the height looked so good on him. He was even better looking up close. 

He gave Penelope the standard bow, and she curtsied in return, before he turned his attention back to Fran, “What are you doing here?” 

“What am I doing here - what are _you_ doing here?” 

“Working,” Colin pointed out, quirking a single, dark brow as he presumed he was stating the obvious. 

“Yeah, Frannie - he _works_ for me,” Penelope chimed in giddily. 

Francesca glared. 

Colin glanced suspiciously between the pair, “My question still stands…” 

Francesca sighed, “This is Penelope.” 

“...Yes, I know,” Colin confirmed, making sure to speak slowly and deliberately. 

Penelope snorted. 

“No, I mean...college-roommate-Penelope.” 

Colin’s eyebrows shot up, then he blinked a couple of times before he laughed - a bright, wonderful sound, “No shit?” He turned to Penelope, “Well, that was a massive oversight on my part - “ 

“You think?” Francesca interjected. 

“In my defense, you never explicitly said, ‘ _My roommate, Penelope Featherington_ ’,” he reasoned. Again, he turned to Penelope, leaning in conspiratorially, “I’ve heard stories,” he informed her, a playful gleam in his eye. 

Penelope grinned back, “Have you now?” 

He nodded, “All good things, of course.” 

“Pity. She clearly didn’t tell you any of the _really_ good ones, then,” Penelope cooed. 

“God help me…” Francesca grumbled, throwing back what was left of her champagne. 

But Colin was unfazed by Penelope’s brazenness, “We’re going to have fun, you and I,” he decided with a grin. 

And Penelope knew then, for certain, that she liked Colin Bridgerton, “Oh, I’m counting on it.” 

“I need a drink. Another one. A stronger one,” Francesca was muttering, already attempting to locate a server. 

“Would you like a drink, Mr. Bridgerton?” Penelope offered, ignoring her friend’s dramatics. 

Colin winced apologetically, rocking back on his heels, "Can't. Working, and all," he informed her. 

"Too bad," Penelope muttered, taking another sip of her own, "If I have one too many, will you take me home?" 

" _Penelope_!" Francesca hissed, giving her a solid swat on the arm. 

Colin grinned, "Yes, ma'am," he confirmed, “Myself or Michael. Who is…” Colin peered over his shoulder to locate his co-worker, frowning when he spotted him right where he’d left him - over by the wall with Frank, “ - staring,” he glared, waving the other man (who clearly was a friend, judging by the familiarity in their silent interaction) over, “Give him a minute. He’s new.” 

"You’re new," Francesca pointed out, voice flat. 

"He’s _very_ new." 

"They let the _very new_ guy sign up to be a Princess’ PPO ?” 

Colin shrugged, “I’m not worried,” he informed them decidedly before he reconsidered and turned to Penelope, giving a respectful nod, “He’s ex-military. You’re in good hands,” he assured her, perhaps realizing that seeming flippant about her safety maybe wasn’t the best look. 

Penelope took no offense (she was sure he didn’t mean that he didn’t _care_ ), “I don’t doubt it,” she assured him in return as she let her mind wander to various fantasies about just how good his hands could be… 

She bit her lip. 

Francesca wrinkled her nose. 

“You know me too well,” Penelope murmured under her breath upon catching the look. 

“A fact that I’m regretting more and more by the minute.” 

Penelope grinned, “Luckily for you, I _also_ know _you_ very well, and I think we should retrieve Mr. Bridgerton’s friend for a proper introduction.” 

“Please don’t - “ 

“If you’ll excuse me,” Penelope beamed, ignoring her protests as she brushed deliberately past the elder Bridgerton, shooting Francesca a discrete wink over her shoulder before she made her way to where Michael still stood dutifully by Frank’s side. 

Colin, much to Francesca’s dismay, turned to watch her go. 

As soon as Penelope was out of earshot, Francesca swatted her brother in the gut. 

Colin grunted, then chuckled, rubbing the spot as he turned back toward her, “What was that for?” 

"You will _not_ sleep with her - understood?" Francesca growled. She knew her brother - she knew his track record with women, had even witnessed more than one walk of shame when he was in town, back when she’d still lived at home. She also knew Penelope, and she knew that Penelope would do her best to tempt him, because that was who Penelope was. 

But Francesca _knew_ Penelope. 

Really knew her. 

She knew that she fell a little bit in love with every man she slept with, no matter how flippant she pretended to be about her so-called “conquests.” 

Francesca knew that it broke her heart to know that that was all they would ever be. 

And all she would ever be to them. 

Penelope Featherington was a romantic at heart, even when she tried her best to pretend otherwise. 

"Yeah, no, totally - absolutely not," Colin agreed, rocking back on his heels. 

Francesca glared at him, catching _something_ in his tone, "I mean it!" 

"What if she _orders_ me to?" he grinned teasingly. 

" _Colin_!" Francesca raised her hand to swat at his again. 

Colin held up his hands in surrender, "Joke! Joke." 

She continued to glare. 

"Deep breaths," Colin reminded her with a bright smile as he surveyed the party. 

Francesca groaned, pinching the bridge of nose, "Colin, please...take something seriously, for once in your life - " 

Colin only grinned, although the smile had become strained, "Relax, Fran. I'm a professional." 

"You better be," she warned. 

Colin’s eyes hardened, “Yee of little faith,” he muttered, shaking his head. Francesca could see that she’d struck some kind of chord in him, and she hoped that meant that what she’d asked of him had sunk in. 

She didn’t want them to get hurt, was all. 

Either of them. 

“Sorry,” she murmured. 

He shrugged, “It was a valid concern,” he allowed good-naturedly. 

Francesca snorted, rolling her eyes fondly. 

It was at that point that Penelope rejoined them, with Michael Stirling (she had come to learn his full name in the short time she’d already spent with him) in tow, “Fran, this is Michael - Michael, Frannie.” 

“Pleasure,” Francesca smiled, reaching to shake Michael’s hand. 

“All mine,” Michael countered smoothly, and Penelope caught Colin’s eye, brows rising in approval. 

Colin grinned back knowingly and, if she hadn’t known any better, Penelope might have suspected that Colin Bridgerton had planned on introducing the pair himself, with or without Penelope’s convenient intervention. 

“Michael was just telling me that he and Colin met in _India_ \- “ Penelope prompted and, as expected, Michael launched into the story of how he and Colin had met in a bar, where they had both been vying for the attention of the same woman. Francesca, for her part, had all sorts of questions for him about his time in India (none of which pertained to her brother or the woman in the bar). She was particularly intrigued once she discovered that, while Colin had just been passing through on his travels, Michael had been living and working there for years before their meeting. 

It was a shame that Colin wasn’t drinking. Penelope would have rather liked to have been able to toast to their matchmaking success… 

But, as it turned out, she would end up drinking more than enough for the both of them as the night wore on. Soon after she’d introduced Michael to Francesca, and before she could make any real headway with Colin, she was forced away from her happy new social circle to make the required rounds for the night. 

The more politicians and diplomats she spoke to, the more she was driven to drink. 

By the time she was permitted to leave (or, rather, strong-armed into doing so by her mother once her increasing intoxication became noticeable), she well and truly needed the escort she’d flirtatiously joked about earlier in the evening. 

Colin volunteered. 

Penelope was delighted. 

After a brief conversation with Frank, and a failed attempt on Penelope’s part to feign injury so that Colin would have to carry her to the car (what a spectacle _that_ would’ve been…), they were on the road, and Penelope took the opportunity to get to know one half of her new security team. 

He was an amiable man, she noted as he responded openly and easily to any and all questions she threw his way. He was quick witted and funny, and she didn’t feel like he was just humoring her when he spoke to her. 

He wasn’t pandering to the princess. 

They were just _talking_. 

She liked it. 

“Why’d you come back?” Penelope asked as they drove, resting her cheek against the cool leather of the seat, her body turned slightly toward him so that she could watch the streetlights flicker over his features while he drove through the city. 

“What do you mean?” he asked, continuing to humor her drunken line of questioning. 

“From travelling - from _India_. Why would you wanna come back here?” she frowned in distaste, “S’probably a lot nicer there.” 

He grinned, “It’s warmer, yeah - beautiful, definitely, but…” 

“But what?” she murmured. 

He glanced over at her, giving a small shrug, “It’s not home,” he licked his lips, “Part of the appeal of travelling is getting to come home again, y’know? Getting to see all your friends and family, tell everyone all your stories, show them pictures - “ 

“I wanna hear your stories,” Penelope hummed. 

“Maybe some other time,” he promised. 

“Why some other time?” 

“Well, for one, I’m not sure you’d remember them if I told you now,” he teased. 

Penelope wrinkled her nose at him, “M’not _that_ drunk.” 

“You’re pretty drunk.” 

“ _You’re_ drunk.” 

“I’m not.” 

“Neither am I.” 

He laughed, “Alright - whatever you say, Princess.” 

Penelope’s mood darkened, “Don’t call me that.” 

Colin frowned, “I’m sorry?” 

“Princess.” 

He considered her curiously - studied her, “Alright, Your Highness…?” 

“No.” 

Silence. 

“What would you like me to call you?” he asked finally. 

She shrugged, offering a small, sad, hopeful smile, “Penelope?” 

He hesitated, “If people heard me calling you that...,” he trailed off apologetically, and, in a sober state, Penelope would have been very much aware of how unprofessional (perhaps even disrespectful) the informality would seem to others. 

She swallowed, licking her lips, “When it’s just us, then. When it’s you and me - call me Penelope.” 

He must’ve seen something in her eyes - her pleading gaze, her desperation to just be _Penelope_. To not be Her Royal Highness, Her Majesty, The Portly Princess - 

To just _be_. 

Because he smiled, nodded, and said, “Okay, Penelope.” 

Penelope beamed back at him, her heart fluttering in her chest (she would later blame the alcohol for that). 

A beat passed between them, and then: 

“You may call me Colin,” he informed her with mock formality. 

And she burst out laughing. 

After a few more questions about Colin’s travels and Penelope’s university exploits, and far too quickly for Penelope’s liking, they arrived at Kensington Palace. Colin drove through the gate and toward the small, two bedroom cottage on the grounds in which Penelope chose to reside (to put _some_ sort of distance between herself and her mother…). 

He rolled to a stop outside the front door and cut the ignition, unfastening his seat belt and climbing out. Penelope watched with a small smile as he walked around to open her door for her, offering a hand to help her as she stepped out. 

“What a gentleman,” she purred playfully, doing her best to ignore the way her skin tingled where he’d touched her, even after he’d let go of her hand. 

“I try.” 

He walked her to the door, despite them both knowing that she was quite safe within the grounds, with guards posted all around the property. 

Penelope fiddled with her keys - like they did in movies at the end of a first date. 

Because this felt a bit like that. 

(She knew it wasn’t like that, but she dared to dream in her intoxicated state - she just wanted to play pretend. 

Just for a moment, she wanted to pretend that Colin Bridgerton was just dropping plain old Penelope Featherington off at home after a nice night out with their friends. In a much simpler world, where she had no title and he wasn’t being paid to be there with her.) 

“You could come in,” Penelope ventured, looking up at him from under her lashes, even being so bold as to reach out and toy with the lapels of his coat. 

Colin licked his lips, “I really can’t,” he muttered. 

“No one would know,” she pointed out. 

He grinned, “Francesca would instinctively know - she’s got a sixth sense for this sort of thing, I’m sure of it.” 

Penelope groaned, letting her head fall back in despair, “Ugh, _Francesca_.” 

“Yes, Francesca,” Colin chuckled, “Not to mention I _just_ got this job - ” 

“Ugh, _jobs_.” 

“You’re also very drunk.” 

“Not that drunk,” Penelope sighed wistfully, letting her hand fall away from his chest, “Some other time, then,” she decided. 

Colin frowned, pursing his lips, “Uh, no, that’s not what I said - “ 

“Shh,” Penelope held a finger against his lips to silence him, swaying forward slightly with the momentum of her reach, “Some other time.” 

Colin couldn’t help but smile, “Whatever you say.” 

“I’m gonna wear you down, Colin Bridgerton,” she warned, backing away from him to keep him in her sights for just a bit longer before she finally turned to unlock the cottage door. 

“You’re welcome to try.” 

She opened the door, turning to him as she stepped inside, “Your resolve is weakening already - I can feel it.” 

“Impressive.” 

She tapped her temple, “Sixth sense.” 

“Wow.” 

“Next time, you’ll be comin’ home with me. Mark my words.” 

He gave a mock salute, “Consider them marked.” 

“I’m serious. I’m a master of seduction.” 

“I bet you are,” he agreed with a grin as he stepped off of the porch, and Penelope could have _sworn_ he looked her up and down before he shook his head and chuckled, “ _Goodnight,_ Penelope,” then turned away to make his way to the car. 

Penelope leaned her forehead against the doorframe as she watched him go, biting her lip to keep her giddy smile at bay, “Goodnight, Colin,” she murmured, far too quietly for him to actually hear her. 

She shut the door as he drove away and practically collapsed against it, her back pressing against the cool mahogany as she released a deep, dreamy sigh. 

He was _lovely_. 

Like, yes, he was gorgeous (which came as no surprise to Penelope, given Francesca’s general state of breathtaking beauty), but beyond that, he was also _funny_ , and sharp, and charming. 

It was a truly lethal combination. 

But, if there was one thing Penelope had learned, it was that she, too, could be just as deadly. 

She knew that nothing could come of it - nothing could come of any of the _fun_ she had on her nights out on the town, either - but she wanted to enjoy this. If she was forced to have extra security in an attempt to control her antics, and her extra security was going to be walking around looking like _that_ , well, then, Penelope was going to make the most out of it. 

When life gives you lemons, and all that. 

“Lemonade,” she muttered, kicking off her heels. 

Colin Bridgerton would be her lemonade. 

(Okay, so, maybe she was a _little_ drunk…)


End file.
